Wilt Thou Torchy. Ford Sewell

exhaustin' the subject—not a chance. For she's some complicated old girl, take it from me. First off, there's that stick-around disposition of hers. Now, I expect that just naturally grew on her, same as my pink thatch did on me. She can't help it; and what's the use blamin' her for it?

      So, when I drop in for my reg'lar Wednesday and Sunday night calls, the main object of the expedition being to swap a little friendly chatter with Vee, and I find Auntie planted prominent and permanent in the sittin'-room, why, I just grins and makes the best of it.

      A patient and consistent sitter-out, Auntie is. And you know that face of hers ain't exactly the chirky sort. Don't encourage you to get chummy, or tip her the confidential wink, or chuck her under the chin. Nothing like that—no.

      Not a regular battle-ax, you understand. For all that, she ain't such a bad-lookin' old dame, when you get her in a dim light. Though the expression she generally favors me with, while it ain't so near assault and battery as it used to be, wouldn't take the place of two lumps in a cup of tea.

      But you kind of get used to that acetic acid stuff after a while; and, since I'm announced by a reg'lar name now—"Meestir Beel-lard" is Helma's best stab at Ballard—and Auntie knowin' that I got a perfectly good uncle behind me, besides bein' a private sec. myself, why, she don't mean more'n half of it.

      Besides, even with her sittin' right there in the room, there's a lot doin' that she ain't in on. Trust Vee. Say, she can drum out classical stuff on the piano and fire a snappy line of repartee at me all the while, just loud enough for me to catch and no more, without battin' an eye. Say, I'm gettin' quite a musical education, just helpin' to stall off Auntie that way. And you should see the cute schemes Vee puts over—settin' a framed photo so it throws the light in the old girl's eyes, or shiftin' our chairs so she has to stretch her neck to keep track of us.

      Makes an evenin' call quite an excitin' game; and when we work in a few minutes of hand-holdin', or I get away with a hasty clinch, why, that scores for our side. So, for a personally conducted affair, it ain't so poor. I'm missin' no dates, I notice. And tuck this away; if it was a case of Vee and a whole squad of aunts, or an uninterrupted two-some with one of these nobody-home dolls, I'd pick Vee and the gallery. Uh-huh! I'm just that good to myself.

      All was goin' along smooth and merry, too, until one Wednesday night I discovers another lid ahead of mine on the hall table. It's a glossy silk tile, with a pair of gray castor gloves folded neat alongside. Seein' which I reaches past Helma for the silver card-tray.

      "Huh!" says I under my breath. "Now, who the giddy gallowampuses is Clyde Creighton?"

      "Vair nice gentlemans, Meester Creeton," whispers Helma.

      "I know," says I; "you're judgin' by the hat."

      She springs that silly grin of hers, as usual. No matter what I say, it gets open-faced motions out of Helma. But I really wasn't feelin' so humorous. Whoever he was, this Creighton guy had come the wrong evenin'. Course, I judged it must be Vee he's callin' on, and I wasn't strong for a three-handed session just then. There was something special I wanted to talk over with Vee this particular evenin', and I couldn't see why—

      But, my first glimpse of Clyde soothes me down a lot. He has curly gray hair, also a mustache that's well frosted up. He's a tall, slim built party, with a wide black ribbon to tie him to his eyeglasses. Seems to be entertainin' Auntie.

      "Ah!" says he, inspectin' me casual over the shell rims. "Mr. Ballard?" And, with a skimpy little nod, he turns back to Auntie and goes on where he broke off, leavin' me to shake hands with myself if I wanted to.

      I expect it served me right, cuttin' in abrupt on such a highbrow conversation as that. Something about the pre-Raphael tendencies of the Barbizon school, I think.

      Culture! Say, if I'm any judge, Claude was battin' about 400. It fairly dripped from him. Talk about broad o's—he spilled 'em easy and natural, a font to a galley; and he couldn't any more miss the final g than a telephone girl would overlook rollin' her r's. And such graceful gestures with the shell-rimmed glasses, wavin' 'em the whole length of the ribbon when he got real interested.

      I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin' before. She seems right at home, fieldin' that line of chat. And Vee, too, is more or less under the spell. As for me, I'm on the outside lookin' in. I did manage though, after doin' the dummy act for half an hour, to lead Vee off to the window alcove and get in a few words.